Father’s Son

I didn’t inherit his baldness,
Derived mine, belatedly, from my mother’s side.
I drive in the same insane New York style:
Winning the next street remains imperative.

Like me, he would have taken advantage
Of the warmth found in a mild winter sun,
And like him the stiffness in my neck
Suggests a head, however empty, needing support.

His manner, so different from mine,
Fearless in the face of pain or opposition.
He did not hurry to moderate differences,
And always assumed he was in the right.

What did I learn?
Ask directions and when uncertain say your wrong.
Did I leave some of his virtues on the table?
You bet, and they’ll remain buried with his ashes.